


(save me if I become) my demons

by bilgegungoren00



Series: who is in control? [1]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hank takes care of Connor, Hank the android sent by Cyberlife, Hurt/Comfort, Lieutenant Connor Anderson, Role Reversal, Role Reversal AU, TW: Self Harm, tw: panic attack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-26
Updated: 2018-07-27
Packaged: 2019-06-16 14:09:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15438777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bilgegungoren00/pseuds/bilgegungoren00
Summary: Lieutenant Connor Anderson is the youngest lieutenant in DPD, but he has demons he keeps hidden behind his success. Hank HK800 is the android sent by Cyberlife sent to work with Connor on the deviancy cases, and he is the first person to see the lieutenant's dark secret.Or, Connor has a panic attack, and Hank is there for him.Role-reversal AUTrigger Warning: panic attack and self-harm





	1. the voice

**Author's Note:**

> IMPORTANT!!! PLEASE READ!!!
> 
> I want to say before the story that I was lucky enough in my life to never deal with anxiety or panic attacks. I don't know what it is like or how it feels, and I can't possibly imagine how scary it might be to have them. I just tried to represent it here to the best of my knowledge, from what I've read online and learned in my psychology lessons. So I apologize in hindsight if I misrepresented anything - I tried to be as realistic as possible, but I genuinely don't know. 
> 
> And to anyone who's been dealing with anxiety or panic attacks, I just want to say, first of all, that you're all so, so brave, more than you can imagine. And second of all, you have nothing to be ashamed of. Having anxiety does NOT mean you're weak or you're unable to deal with it - it is a disease, and it is NOT your fault, just like having flu wouldn't be your fault either. And please, please, please talk to someone, it might be scary but it is very very important.
> 
> Also, if you're struggling with these kinds of problems, please be aware before you read this story. I want y'all to be safe, and I don't want any harm to come to you. 
> 
> P.s. This story was inspired by this Tumblr post by @catecorno: https://catecorno.tumblr.com/post/176170724370/a-concept-for-the-reverse-role-au. Please go show her some love there, her fanart for DBH is truly amazing and she deserves it :)
> 
> P.s. 2. Title is from the song My Demons by Starset

Empty coffee cups and cigarette butts littered the coffee table. A chair was knocked sideways, resting on the floor in the middle of the kitchen. One of the drawers were ripped open, knives and spoons and forks were scattered around the floor. A lonely light was flickering in the house, lighting up the cat fearfully crouched on the kitchen counter, and the man sitting on the floor, curled into himself.

If anybody at Detroit Police Department saw the state of their lieutenant’s house, they would balk with disbelieving eyes. Connor Anderson, the youngest lieutenant in the precinct, was calm and collected whenever he was around people. He worked with crazy efficiency, solving crimes at such a rate that he’d been promoted to the rank of lieutenant when he was only twenty-five. Any officer describing him would tell you that he was quiet, mostly kept to himself, didn’t talk to anyone unless he absolutely needed to, yet he was also very kind and understanding, he never judged anyone for a genuine mistake, and he treated everyone equally, no matter what rank they were.

Everybody loved Lieutenant Anderson at the precinct, and yet nobody knew who he was behind the closed doors of his house. Nobody knew the demons he kept behind his badge, the scars he hid under his uniform. He only let the crippling thoughts out when he was in his house. When there was nobody to witness the sad excuse of a man.

He’d been working on the newest case files Captain Fowler assigned him when he felt the demons creep closer. The files were mountain high, impossible for just one person to go through them in one night. These…deviancy cases had blown up in the last couple of weeks, leaving Connor to deal with the aftermath—the lack of evidence, the improper handling, the misinformation littered through each file. Nobody knew how to handle these cases before they got to him, and it showed.

He’d already had a headache, coming to the end of his fifth cup of coffee, when he felt his breath shorten. A telltale sign, coupled with his nausea, pounding heart, and sweat dotting the nape of his neck, that he was about to have a panic attack. He’d had them enough times at this point that he knew when one was coming.

Yet he’d pushed through. He needed to finish these case files before the panic attack came—before he became so useless that he wouldn’t even be able to read a word, let alone process anything. He was unaware, even after all those years of dealing with anxiety, that the cases were exactly what pushed him into the panic attack. The fear of failure, the fear of not being enough—a lot was riding on him, a lot of people depended on him, and he couldn’t let them down. He had to do his job, he had to succeed, yet it was too much and there was too little time—had it already been midnight?

Connor looked up at the closed window of the kitchen. He needed air—oxygen. Why had he closed the window in the first place? The weather was cold. Right. Bad idea. He should’ve left it open—he knew there wouldn’t be enough oxygen in the house. There never was. If he could just _breathe,_ he knew he could push away the demons, he knew he could focus on the damn cases and just finish them!

He tried to stand up, miscalculating the strength in his legs. He tripped over immediately, knocking his chair aside. He felt the cold floor under his sweaty palms, and he heard the faint meowing of a cat startled by the loud crash of the chair. Cat—where was his cat?

No. Window. He needed to get to the window. Then he would worry about his cat—she was fed, she had water, she had toys, and she was already used to Connor’s panic attacks. She wasn’t even scared of them anymore like she was the first time. She’d be okay.

Focus. Window. Right. Connor tried to push himself off the ground, but he was too weak. Did he have the lights on? Right, he’d only turned on the kitchen light. Why? It was too dark. He couldn’t see—or was it just the lack of oxygen? If he could just _get to the window—_

But he wasn’t strong enough. He was a failure. He wouldn’t be able to finish the case files. He would fail Fowler. He would get fired. He would lose his rank—

 _No, Connor, breathe. Breathe._ But there wasn’t enough air—where was air? Where was the window? It was too high up, and Connor couldn’t stand up. He felt dizzy, nauseated. Would he throw up? No—no, he hadn’t eaten anything. Only coffee.

He tried to lift himself up again, but it didn’t work—his hands weren’t responding to him. His legs weren’t responding to him. Why was it suddenly too hot in here? Where was he, even? His hand found the kitchen counter. Right. He was in his kitchen. The window—

Too high, it was too high—

He couldn’t reach it in time. He’d slip, he’d lose control. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t focus, it was all too dark, dark, dark—

He was too weak. He didn’t deserve to be a lieutenant. Fowler shouldn’t have trusted him with these deviancy files. The case was important, too important—

 _No. Don’t slip, Connor._ He forced his eyes open, forced himself to look around. The kitchen—he could barely see the outline. He flung his arm up, hoping to reach the kitchen counter again, but it was no use—he would never reach it. Instead, his hand hit a knob—

A knob. The drawer. Knife. His knife. He needed his knife.

He tried to clear his head—why was there not enough air? He needed to change his ventilating system—but it wasn’t working. It wasn’t fucking _working._ He needed—

No, he needed to focus. He couldn’t let himself slip. He needed to feel—he needed to feel grounded. He needed _pain._ He was slipping, and he needed the pain to ground himself. To remind himself he was still here, his body was still here, that he wasn’t dying, he could breathe, he was here—

Was he here? He felt numb. Dizzy. Where was the fucking _knife?_ He pulled on the drawer, his sweaty hands making the job harder—was it burning in here, or was it just him? Window, he needed to open the window—

No, he needed the knife. Pull, just pull…

The drawer crashed into the floor, scattering the kitchen utensils around. Connor flung his arm around, trying to find the knife—once he found it, it would all be okay. He would come back, he would finish the case files. He just needed the knife.

His fingers wrapped around the hilt, and Connor finally felt like he could breathe. He brought the knife closer to himself, to his arm—not his wrists, though. Up, closer to his shoulder, where people couldn’t see. His wrists were too risky, too open. Nobody could know he was struggling. They would make fun of him. They would see him as weak. He would be fired, he would be unemployed, he’d lose everything—

He dug the knife into his skin, focusing on the flash of pain coursing through himself. No, he wouldn’t slip. He was here. His body was here. The pain was real, he was real—he just needed to breathe. God, where was the fucking _air?_

No, no, focus. Another cut—this time, it was over a previous scar, opening the wound all over again. The trickle of blood ran down Connor’s arm. He could barely feel it. He curled into himself, grasping the knife tightly to not lose it, holding onto the feeling of pain. Pain grounded him. The pain was real, so he was real. He would get through this. The case files—he would deal with them.

Another cut. Deeper this time. He choked out a whimper and bit down on his lip when a wave of nausea passed over him. No, he wouldn’t throw up. He couldn’t—could he? What if he did? What if he threw up tomorrow, in front of everyone else?

Another cut. Focus on the pain. Focus—

The knife was yanked out of his hand. He yelped out, helplessly reaching for the object when he didn’t even know where it was now. No, _no_ —he needed the knife.

Two hands grasped his wrists, not too hard enough to actually send him down a well of panic but strong enough to keep him in place. “Connor, don’t,” he heard a soft voice say.

He froze. He wasn’t alone. No, no, no, no no no nonononono—

He couldn’t let anyone see him like this. He couldn’t let them see he was weak—a failure. Just a failure, failure, failurefailurefailure

Knife. Where was the knife? He was slipping again. Who was here? Who was with him?

“Connor, can you hear me?” A hand grasped his. “If you can, squeeze my hand.” Connor stopped for a second, his eyes snapped shut tightly. He couldn’t breathe—why couldn’t he just breathe? Who was talking to him? Should he squeeze? God, the knife, he needed the _knife_ —

He squeezed the person’s hand, trying to focus on his breathing, but he couldn’t, he was too weak, he was a failure, just—

“I need you to breathe for me, Connor. Can you do that?” Connor registered the words, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t breathe, there wasn’t enough air—the window—where was it?

“Not…enough…air…” he rasped out, rocking back and forth. Pain, he needed the pain, but he was restrained. He couldn’t move to hurt himself. No no no, he was slipping, it was too dark, he was dizzy—was the room spinning?

“Just focus on my voice, Connor. Breathe in. Breathe out. Follow me. Breathe in. Breathe out.” The words—he heard them, but he couldn’t process them. He couldn’t—could he? The pattern. There was a pattern. Breathe in. Breathe out. Pattern—follow the words. He could do that. He inhaled with the voice—a raspy one, but still, an inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. He was steadying—he could now feel the floor underneath him. It was cold—cold? He felt hot and cold all over.

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

“Connor, remember Chicken Feed?” Chicken Feed? “Their hamburgers. You love them.” Hamburgers. Yes. Hamburgers. He loved the place—he loved Gary. He ate there often, when he needed an escape, when he needed to clear his head.

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. It was helping. He wasn’t shaking anymore. He wasn’t hot anymore—his senses had returned. Yet he still kept his eyes closed, following the voice. “Can you tell me how the hamburger tastes like?”

Hamburger. What is it like? Connor tried to focus his thoughts on the memory. “Hot,” he said, the word unintelligible. Yet the voice didn’t complain. “Salty. Meat is… Meat is good. It’s…fulfilling. It’s…” Inhale. Exhale. “It reminds me of my childhood.”

“That’s great.” He felt an arm snake around his shoulders, embracing him. His face was pressed against a cloth—someone’s shoulder, he identified—and he welcomed the embrace. His fists closed around the cloth. “Tell me about what it reminds you of your childhood.”

So Connor told the voice. It was shaky at first, the demons still lurking in the corners, still trying to haunt him. Yet at least he didn’t feel like hurting himself anymore. He didn’t need the pain anymore. He wasn’t numb anymore—he could feel what was around him. And the more he talked, the more he calmed down, the more he felt grounded. He was himself. He was here. He was okay.

Yet he only opened his eyes when he was sure the panic attack was over, when he didn’t feel the demons, when he felt safe. Only then his eyelids flickered and he pulled back, opening his eyes to see who the voice belonged to. He came face to face with blue eyes, a messy white hair, and an LED, flashing between blue and yellow.

The name was a desperate plea on his lips. “Hank.”


	2. light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you like this chapter :)

Connor was disgusted. Well, he was also horrified at the turn of events, but mostly he was disgusted with himself, for being unable to stop _yet another_ panic attack, for leaving the case files unfinished on his table, and…for letting someone else witness him at his lowest point.

For years, he’d been able to hide his anxiety from everyone, including his family. For years, he fought the shadows by himself, and while he hadn’t always been successful, at least he had never burdened anyone with what was essentially his problem. He also never let anyone see just how broken he was underneath his calm exterior. He made sure nobody ever found out about it…

Except for his partner who’d been assigned to him literally a couple of days ago. His partner who was also an _android,_ sent by Cyberlife to assist in the deviancy cases. He was able to hide from even his lifelong friends, yet the fucking android found out about his secret days into their partnership.

What kind of a fucked up coincidence was that?

And worst of all, Hank refused to leave. After Connor actually managed to pull through his panic attack and came to his senses, he told the android that he was perfectly fine and he could take care of himself, yet Hank just glanced at the cuts on his arm and the bloody knife on the floor and said he was staying. Connor couldn’t convince him otherwise. So here they were, in his living room, Connor sitting on the couch as Hank took care of his wounds.

Hank hadn’t said a word about what he witnessed. He must’ve known that Connor was having a panic attack—hell, he was probably even equipped with how to deal with it, being a “state-of-the-art prototype” and all, hence how he was able to calm Connor down in the blink of an eye. Hank hadn’t even seemed fazed about what happened—he was just…indifferent, which was almost worse because Connor _knew_ the android must have at _least_ some opinion about what happened, and not being able to read it was about to drive him crazy.

He briefly glanced at Hank, who was in the process of bandaging up his arm. The question left his mouth before he could think about it. “Aren’t you going to ask what that was about?” Hank stopped for a second to glance at the lieutenant.

“I assumed you would tell me if you wanted to,” he said softly. Fucking android, showing absolutely no emotion as always. Connor gritted his teeth.

“Aren’t you at least a little bit curious?” he couldn’t help asking. Hank shook his head.

“It isn’t in my programming to be—“

“ _Bullshit_ ,” Connor hissed. He didn’t even know why he got all defensive about it. But he knew, he just _knew_ what Hank thought about him. He thought Connor was weak and useless, and he was probably going to ask for a new partner tomorrow, a more efficient partner. There was no other logical conclusion. “I know you think I’m weak. You don’t have to hide that.” Hank’s eyes turned to him. He didn’t say anything at first, just searching Connor’s face, before he shook his head.

“I don’t think you’re weak, Lieutenant,” he argued. Connor felt anger bubble inside him. (He knew it was irrational, but he couldn’t help himself.)

“You just saw me curled up on the floor having a fucking _panic attack.”_

“Panic attacks have their roots in the body’s chemistry. It says nothing about one’s strength.”

“You’re just trying to make me feel better—“

“No, Connor.” Hank stopped him before he could finish. “You’re just projecting.” Connor frowned. He wasn’t _projecting._ He was weak, it was plain and simple— “You think having panic attacks makes you weak, so you want me to feel the same way. That doesn’t mean I do.” Hank made sure that Connor understood what he said before turning back to the bandage. Silence engulfed the room for a couple of seconds, allowing Connor to think.

Hank didn’t think he was weak. But…how was that possible?

He pulled away from his thoughts with Hank’s voice. “Some of the scars on your arm are older than a couple of months,” he stated. His voice wasn’t judgmental, though, it was just…curious. “How long have you been struggling with anxiety?” Connor bit his lip, debating whether he should say anything or not. Hank _obviously_ knew what he was going through, the signs were there, but… Admitting it was hard. He still hadn’t come to terms with it himself, even after years.

“Since high school,” he confessed finally, his voice low. He couldn’t look at Hank. The android stayed silent to let Connor continue. “My parents aren’t rich, and I have two younger brothers, so they depended a lot on me growing up. They wanted me to be successful, to bring money to the house, to give my brothers a good life. My grades were good as well, so they believed in me, and I couldn’t let them down. But sometimes it got too overwhelming and I felt like I would fail and let everyone down and…” He couldn’t continue as tears filled his eyes. He tried to blink them away. Shit, the android had already watched him break down, he couldn’t cry in front of him as well.

“What about the scars?” Hank asked. Shame churned in Connor’s gut. Every single scar on his arms represented his failure, his weakness, his inability to deal with life’s problems. He ducked his chin.

“Sometimes my panic attacks got too intense. I couldn’t feel my body. I couldn’t feel anything, like…like I was dead. And it terrified me. Cutting myself…was a reminder that I was real. The pain was the only way I could feel real.” He couldn’t look at Hank. Surely the android thought he was just a weakling now. Just a weak, broken boy.

Hank stayed silent for a second, presumably processing the information. “How often do you have panic attacks?” he continued, and damn if it wasn’t getting to Connor’s nerves, how calm Hank sounded. How he didn’t betray any emotion. Answering the questions became even harder with that.

As if it already wasn’t hard. As if Hank wasn’t going to report all this to Captain Fowler and he’d be fired. As if he hadn’t already failed.

“…Every day,” he confessed, glancing at the case files on the tables. “When I have a case, it’s…harder.” That was all he could say. That was all he had the strength for without crying…or without hurting himself. Maybe Hank saw that, too, because he held Connor’s hands softly.

“Nobody knows about this.” It was more of a statement than a question, but Connor nodded. A brief glance at the android, and he saw that Hank looked almost horrified—the most emotion Connor saw from him. “You’ve been dealing with this alone for all these years?”

Tears filled Connor’s eyes again. “I can’t let them know that I’m weak,” he whispered, barely loud enough for a human to hear. An android, though… “Fowler would fire me, my friends would leave me, and everyone would think I’m just a failure. I _can’t_ be a failure.” He stressed his last words, as shaky as his voice was. _You’re already a failure,_ a voice whispered in his mind. _It’s just a matter of time until people find out._

He shut his eyes. Really, who was he kidding? It was bound to come out sooner rather than later.

He felt two hands on his arms. “Connor, you’re not a failure,” Hank said, his voice strong enough to get Connor’s attention. “Your friends and family wouldn’t think that, even if they knew.” Connor shook his head.

“I can’t tell them. I don’t have a choice.”

“You _always_ have a choice.” Hank stopped for a second, and Connor thought the android would leave—why should _it_ care, at the end? But instead, Hank took him completely by surprise and hugged him—the android fucking _hugged him._

It was probably the first hug he had in _years._ And damn if it didn’t feel good. Connor closed his eyes and hugged Hank back, resting his head on the android’s shoulder. “Connor, you have to talk about this,” the android whispered to him. “Having panic attacks might not be in your control, but getting help is. That’s the only way you can get better.”

Connor’s throat knotted. He shook his head. “What if they just think I’m weak?” he whispered, his fears surfacing again. “That I’m just a failure?”

Hank pulled back to look at Connor’s face, and damn if there wasn’t a fiery conviction in the android’s eyes. “Then they’d be wrong,” he said simply. Connor just gaped at Hank, wondering whether he was telling the truth, but he couldn’t find a trace of a lie. He pressed his lips together.

And he nodded. As terrified as he was of even the idea of talking to someone, he nodded.

Hank offered him a small smile. “Good.” Then the android turned to the kitchen. “I will clean the mess up, okay?” Connor didn’t have it in him to argue. He just watched Hank do his thing, playing with the bandage, Hank’s words spinning in his mind. That was why the thought hit him only a couple of minutes later. His eyes snapped up to Hank.

“Hank, why were you here tonight?” he asked. He doubted the android came just for a friendly visit. Hank stopped, as if debating whether he should tell the truth or not.

“There was a deviancy case. I thought we could check it up together.” Panic flared in Connor’s chest. Oh no, were they too late because of his damn panic attack? But Hank stopped him. “But we can do it tomorrow. There’s no rush.”

“Hank—“

“No, Connor. You’re not okay. We’re staying.” Connor went silent, just watching the android, before he nodded. He didn’t question why Hank didn’t check the deviancy case by himself when he saw Connor was unavailable. He didn’t question why the android bothered to help Connor at all, when it was clearly not his mission. He especially didn’t question why Hank was putting his mental health above that said mission. He didn’t need to know the answers. The android had stayed. That was all that mattered.

“Hank?” he asked shakily again, right after the android finished cleaning up. “Can you…stay here tonight?” Fuck, he didn’t want to be alone, not after today. He hated being alone at nights. You would’ve expected him to get used to it by now, but it was never easy. _Never_.

Hank didn’t even hesitate. “Of course.”

That night, for the first time, Lieutenant Connor Anderson had a good night’s sleep.

* * *

By the time Connor woke up, Hank had already left. Not that he expected the android to stay the whole night. Androids didn’t need sleep, so it would be fucking boring, Connor imagined. He still couldn’t thank the android enough for staying until he fell asleep.

Stopping his alarm, Connor sat up, feeling a crippling headache. He ran a hand through his curls to smooth them up, swung his legs down his bed and—

He noticed the cup of water, two pills, and a piece of paper on his bedside table then. He frowned. He was sure he hadn’t set them up—

Hank. It must be him. _How did the fucking android know I would have a headache in the morning?_ Connor decided not to question and took the painkillers, downing them quickly. He needed to bring his best today.

Somehow, that pressure didn’t haunt him as he used to before.

He tentatively took the note Hank left—it was still very creepy, just how perfect androids’ handwriting was—unfolding it.

_Connor,_

_I’m leaving painkillers for you here, if you get a headache. And don’t forget to check the cuts on your arms—there’s a high probability that they are not infected, but you never know._

_I won’t tell anyone about what happened yesterday. It is your secret to reveal when you feel safe to do it. But you should know that you are not alone. It’s just a plastic prick’s opinion, but I’m always here if you need anyone to talk to._

_I also left the names of a couple of psychologists in the Detroit area, especially those who specialize in anxiety and panic attacks, and included a couple of helpful websites. Check them out when you can. You’re not alone._

_Hank_

_P.S. I finished looking over the cases yesterday while you were asleep. My notes are on the table. We can go through them together today. You shouldn’t have to carry their burden alone._

Connor blinked in surprise, scanning the names and web links underneath, rereading the note to make sure he wasn’t dreaming. Gratitude filled him. Hank… Hank had saved him. He wondered whether the android was aware of that.

And, well, for an android… Hank showed a whole lot of humanity. Not that Connor would ever complain. Hank promised to keep his secret. Connor could do the same.


End file.
